Atonement
by startwriting
Summary: It's about birthday presents, but not really. I bet he had these days. And I bet she was around when he did. Epilogue added now.
1. Chapter 1

_He is only human, right ? I bet he had these days. _

_Before reading this, think about that one little scene _**before**_ Perry kisses Della on screen for the first and last time. It's on YouTube: _PM is Past Midnight_. _

_No storyline, four (short) chapters during the day before and on her birthday._

_Happy, happy birthday to lady Barbara Hale!_

* * *

**- Atonement -**

**One**

**PM: Pretty Mad - Post Mortem**

He sank down on the couch ungracefully and lay back again, grunting to himself, while throwing the evening news paper through the office.

He swore at his ego, even bigger than himself. True, he considered himself a winner by nature. But the winner he had been yesterday, had just been _using_ his brilliance to have a client released from death penalty, exposing the real perpetrator along the way _as usual_. The problem was, that this client had been innocent of this particular crime, but he wasn't an innocent man. It was a known felon, suspected for getting away with crimes in disgusting ways. And so Perry Mason felt he was guilty. As a matter of fact, he believed he himself had to be charged with misconduct.

But justice had been served, right?

Having this client convicted for a crime he didn't commit had not been an option.

And innocence had been served as well.

But it made him sick.

He picked up the frontpage of the paper he had been throwing around. This frontpage, including an article about the trial along with his picture, had landed next to the couch on the floor, as if to remind him of the mistake that had not been a mistake, but certainly felt like one.

He sighed. Yes, this client was going to receive an impossibly high invoice, and he was probably going to pay it without thought, and move on as if nothing had happened. That invoice was probably already on its way. Perry had explicitly told Della to deposit all the turnover from this case to charity immediately. It was the only way something good could come from this. He didn't want this money.

And he didn't want this case on his curriculum.

_' Move to strike, Your Honour. ' _

_' No, Mr. Mason. Endure your ways. ' _

He tore the news paper to pieces, making the scraps very small, placing them on the coffee table next to him, to dispose of them later. According to the press, his winning ways impressed and surprised people. This had increased with the years that passed. It was said, age had been gentle to him and had added grace and creativity to his brilliance. But that wasn't even close to the truth, was it ?

Because at days like today, he considered age had not been gentle to him at all. The result of long days of hard working for years without paying too much attention to his own body, stared at him in the mirror every morning, and this morning it had been staring at him longer and harder. That was how he knew what kind of day this was going to be. Not kind at all. That was why he had sank down onto the couch this morning, and had gotten up only to go to the bathroom or to switch on lights now that it was also darkening outside again.

Somewhere today, he had swept the files and journals that had been waiting for him on his desk to the floor, in one big swipe of his larger than life arm.

The one news paper that had refused to fall to the floor with the rest, had been the one singing about his victory, the one he had just tore to pieces.

As if it was obliged to be read. As if he had to face it.

It was at times like this, he was hit by reality, confronted with himself in different ways, becoming so aware of his flaws, his wrongs, his weight, his inability to control himself. He felt tired, weary and empty. There was no blood running through his veins today but thick syrup, and it was draggingly slowing him down, reducing him to a self pitying, spoiled child. He had not gotten what he'd wanted, while everyone thought he had. And he knew, but couldn't help himself.

He swore.

He felt extremely heavy in more ways than one, and extremely sorry, for himself mostly. The evil he was confronted with on a daily basis, agitated him, turned him inside out in all the wrong ways. Yesterday he had proven it again, he wasn't a saint, he wasn't brilliant, he could be a manipulating slick snake, concentrating so hard on his client, he was walking on the edge of what was legally and ethically possible, just to prove he was a winner. It was all about ego, wasn't it ? He just could not lose.

He had done that when he was younger and he still did it now. The difference was he threw his weight around more litterally now, being imposing by posture as age had added two Della Streets to his younger self. It was what she herself used to say. She had said he had eaten her twice in the eight years he had been without her. Added her to his life that way, without being aware of it.

There had only been one doctor he had trusted enough to talk about these dark days, and that man had told him very specifically to accept it while it happened and to just let it pass.

_" Don't pay too much attention to it. Adrenaline needs to subside, cortisol needs to take over, and your system needs to be in balance. You have to allow that to take place at times, and it can make you feel like you do now. But it's just a feeling, and it's there to urge you to take your time, Mason. Rest. Do nothing for a day. You might think you are superior to the human species, but you're not, and you have to accept the fact that you have to rest and you have to accept the fact that you're human, as are all your clients. The only thing that is different between you and them, is the side of the table you're on." _

These sentences had reassured him, but had kept him awake as well. No, he wasn't superior to the human species. And what if he'd be on the other side of the table? What if he had to convince someone of his innocence and knew his life would depend on the opinion and visions of a jury, a judge, another lawyer ? Would he be willing to depend on the other to walk the edges of what was legally and ethically possible ?

Even if he had killed. And he would be able to kill. He didn't just fear he would be, he actually knew he would be. Given the right circumstances and reasons. Given motive, means and opportunity, he would be. Anyone would be.

The common joke was, that he, being a criminal defense lawyer, would know exactly how to do it without being noticed and without getting caught. But that was the joke, a raw joke, but a joke. What was the truth? And was he the one to decide what the truth was? And was it important? Was he the one to handle it ? And how did he handle the truth? How guilty was he?

This time, he felt guilty as Hell for a crime he didn't commit.

Sometimes, as frustration gradually threatened to take over from reason, and his need for an acceptable truth rose above human capacity, his anger, fear and insecurity started to seep through.

And an insecure Perry Mason being angry and scared resulted in his unreasonable yelling and fuming. Philosophical truths and clichés didn't suffice to tame him at these moments, he needed to let off steam. There was calm appearance on the outside, seemingly effortlessly, but he needed yelling. He needed fuming.

And that would always be directed to the only one who knew how to handle it, the only one who had practised enduring his ways, the only one who was seemingly numb to his swearing.

The one he would kill for.

The moments he had taken it out on her swirled through his office, together with the scraps of the news paper he swept of the coffee table now, and he swore because they were raining down to the floor too damn slowly.

_" Today, please, Della ! "_

_" I'm working on it. " _

_" I don't _see_ you working on it. "_

_" Just be patient. "_

_" No, there is a client waiting damn it, and I can not be patient. Get a move on! " _

and

_" Where are the copies, Della ? "_

_" I haven't got them yet. " _

_" You get down to the damn courtroom to get these copies and hope they are still there. " _

and

_" Damn it! I need the information now. The trial starts tomorrow at 9.30 … " _

_" Will 6.00 a.m. be okay? "_

_" No! "_

and

_" I still think you shouldn't do that, Perry. " _

_" Then what the Hell would you want me to do, Della? You do it yourself if you think you can do it better. "_

_" I didn't say that I can do it better. "_

_" Then what are you saying? "_

_" I just want to help you." _

_" Well, you're not helping. And we're doing it my way. " _

_" Your way … "_

_" I'm the boss … " _

_" Yes, you're the boss … " _

He sighed. He swung his legs from the couch to the floor. No, that was what he would have liked to have done. That was what he would have done had he been his younger self. But he was old now, wasn't he? So, one by one, he consciously placed his feet on the deep-pile carpet, wincing at the jolt of pain coming from his right knee. Swearing under his breath, he took a moment to allow the pain to subside. He looked down at his feet.

Black socks on a dark blue surface, _'walking on water_' is what she used to call it. _'We do sometimes perform miracles here in this office, Perry. '_

Where was she now? The clock had ticked the day away into the evening already. It had been very quiet the last hour. There had been no phonecalls all day, she'd probably unplugged the phones.

His hands went through his hair. Once, a long time ago, he had felt thick wavy locks there, and now he felt thin, soft down. Inversely to how his body had developed, from light to heavy. It was what age did, irreversably.

Age. He sighed again, swore, realized he had left her present at home.

Then he grinned and shook his head, realizing he had been dwelling on the couch, doing nothing as he was told to do, all day. He was an idiot, able to worry about nothing, able to do nothing, coming from nothing and he was going back to nothing.

And so would all the lying and cheating men and women on the face of this earth disappear gradually too. Post mortem, everybody looked the same. He grinned again. Maybe things shouldn't be taken so very serious all the time.

He lay back on the couch again, not ready to stand up just yet.

Just a few more moments. Humour was surfacing. The feel in his fingers came back, it was blood that was running through his veins again, instead of syrup. He felt it. In a few minutes, he would be able to pick up the scraps of paper from the floor next to him, and dispose of them.

He closed his eyes, placed one hand on his massive chest to feel his heart beat its normal rhythm, and placed the other hand beneath his head.

He pretended to be sleeping still as he heard her walking into his office, her kissable stockinged feet silently brushing the carpet. She moved around his desk, she was searching for something, he heard some muttering. The rustle of her skirt around her caressable long silken stockinged legs approached him, made his breathing deep and even. She sat down next to him on the couch. He dwelled in the touch of her thigh against his and her soft fingers on the creases on his forehead.

Then two elegant, cool fingers slipped inside the sleeve of his shirt, playing with the soft hairs she found there.

" Perry … " she whispered, not to wake him up, she probably didn't want him to be awake yet, was probably and rightfully angry with him. She just said it to reassure herself.

She stood up, and he almost moaned out loud to protest at the loss of physical contact. From the sounds he heard he understood she was picking up the pieces of the news paper he had thrown on the floor earlier, she was once again cleaning his mess.

She left his office in the silent way she had entered it before.

He swallowed.

At the end of the day, she was his most important clue.

She could handle him, partly because she had been on the other side of the table -_'the bad side of the table, Mason_'-, and partly because time had been gentle to her.

Hadn't time been gentle to him? Gentle enough to etch careful, but impressively deep wrinkles next to his eyes. And weren't they caused by smiling? At her and with her? At and with two Paul Drakes, and one Ken Malansky. At and with hundreds of people that were living happily ever after because he had set them free, because he was able to face human evil and catalyse confusion into truth and justice. And wasn't part of the reason he could do that, the fact that she was able to handle him?

With care.

Where was she?

God, how he loved her.

It was time to find her. Time to tell her he was sorry for his ways. Time to do penance until very deep into the night, and continue it tomorrow morning, after just some hours of much more needed sleep. Celebrate her birthday. Time to nurture her, cherish her, love her, spoil her. Ravish her.

Time to throw his weight around in more ways than one.

Because he was the boss, right ?

He grinned.

_-TBC-_


	2. Chapter 2

**Two **

**PM : Past Master**

She grins. She doesn't normally do that, but she's so sure nobody is watching her now, she does, widely. Paul's birthday card for her has already arrived this morning, together with a little bouquet of flowers. She reads the card again, and smiles lovingly.

Living in the present is so much nicer than dwelling in the past.

But Perry is the boss, no matter which time he's dwelling in. There can not be two captains on one ship, it just doesn't work that way. And so they don't work that way. He leads, she follows. Facilitates the working brain, feeds the brilliance, relishes it, protects him if necessary, allowing herself to dwell in the slipstream of his success sometimes, making sure she does that unnoticed. Very aware of her position, her job.

After he came back from doing some necessary paper work at the courthouse this morning, his state had altered. She recognized it from the sighs coming out of his office, the noise of papers being thrown around, and then his sudden silence.

It is one of these days.

Succes just has its downsides, he knows that, and she has learned to accept that. And, it's better today, than tomorrow.

_'Without knowing darkness you won't be able to recognize the light and enjoy it'_, and that kind of stupid clichés go through her mind. But they don't help him at times like this. She just has to allow this to happen, but just for a day.

She knows she has to avoid him, she has to leave him strictly to his own devices, allow him to dwell in his selfmade dark well of selfpity for a while. She also knows she just has to wait, because he knows how to get out of this state of mind. That's what it is. A state of mind, a snapshot photo taken with a dark filter.

Luckily, his filters are usually much, much brighter.

The only doctor he has ever talked to about these bad days, told her to just take care of him physically and ignore his mood. To make sure he drinks, eats and sleeps enough and on a regular basis, and that's it. That same doctor has reassured her of something she already knew, being that Perry Mason is smart enough to recognize the process of balancing the unbalanced. He knows he has to rest. He knows he has to take his time. He doesn't really like it, but he knows how to do it.

So she takes care of him. She has brought him sandwiches, fruits, water and coffee during the day. She has locked the outer doors to the office and has taken the plugs out of the phones, so he can't be disturbed. Their message service is informed, that this office just can't be reached, but only for today.

She'll have them connected to the outside world first thing tomorrow morning again. But now, honestly, she really enjoys the peace and quiet. His moods allow her to take her time as well. To do some of her own clearing and cleaning.

And being angry with him just make her ways quicker and more efficient.

He dwells on the couch at days like these, and only stands up a few times, to go to the bathroom, or to switch on some lights, like he did just now. He probably doesn't even remember he has left his office once, to stare at her, leaning back to the doorframe. He has asked her a question, mumbling in his typical way, his eyes weary and hollow, grey. " How are you? " Not in a real particularly interested way, he was just being polite. He wouldn't have listened at all if she had given him the truthful answer. So she has given him the unpolite answer. No reason to hide she's hurt.

" Well, how do you think I am, Perry ? " She didn't even look at him. _Suffer for a while longer_.

She knows why he's suffering. It's because he has won yesterday's case, but feels he shouldn't have. She shrugs without thought. So what? The client was innocent of the crime. It wasn't a very nice man, but not very nice men can be innocent too. And rich. So, this particular client will be receiving quite an invoice tomorrow, it's already in the mail, the numbers on them twice as high as they should be, and she'll deposit all the money they'll get from him to charity.

Justice served, point taken, case closed.

And she's the secretary, so she files the cases along with the memories and questions, store them, put them away safely in the archive, and she's learned to only take the contents out when she wants to contemplate, but he can't work that way. He's the lawyer. The cases and all that they bring on tumble over him sometimes, shock him unexpectedly when he is vulnerable, tired.

She knows that sometimes the evil eats Perry Mason, and sometimes he eats the evil. Some of his cases do that to him. It's one of the reasons he has been putting on so much weight. Sometimes he forgets he is not ultimately responsible for clearing all the hurt and injustice of this world. He is a catalyst, changing just some of the confusing matters into clarity, dividing truth from lies, dividing guilty from innocence.

She sighs. She's been on both sides of the table. So she knows how far he can go.

And when he tends to forget he is not superior to the human species, he's impossible to work with.

_" Today, please, Della ! "_

_" I'm working on it. " _

_" I don't _see_ you working on it. "_

_" Just be patient. "_

_" No, there is a client waiting damn it, and I can not be patient. Get a move on! " _

and

_" Where are the copies, Della ? "_

_" I haven't got them. " _

_" You get down to the damn courtroom to get these copies and hope they are still there. " _

and

_" Damn it! I need the information now. The trial starts tomorrow at 9.30 … " _

_" Will 6.00 a.m. be okay? "_

_" No! "_

and

_" I still think you shouldn't do that, Perry. " _

_" Then what the Hell would you want me to do, Della? You do it yourself if you think you can do better. "_

_" I didn't say that I can do it better. "_

_" Then what are you saying? "_

_" I just want to help you." _

_" Well, you're not helping. We're doing it my way. " _

_" Your way … "_

_" I'm the boss … " _

_" Yes, you're the boss … " _

She sighs again.

He is an intelligent, complex man. Intelligent, complex men have complex secrets, and she knows she is one of them. Has been now for forty-three birthdays, thirty-five if she takes into account their eight year interlude. But who is counting?

At days like these, she glares into his office regularly, notices he's on the couch, his forehead in a frown, both large rugged hands rubbing the creases in his forehead to avoid a headache. Or massaging the headache away, a task her strong capable fingers can perform so much better, but she doesn't want to be near him. Not now.

In the past hour she has noticed there is some more movement in the office next to hers. Sounds of papers shifting, more than there was before. He has been tearing paper, maybe he has been cleaning his mess? Every now and then she hears a muffled curse, which brings up the corners of her mouth, but just briefly. Her nostrils betray her amusement. He acts like a little boy, not knowing how to handle himself. She doesn't want to be with him now. She needs him to be large, in more ways than one. She needs the man. She wants the man in the present. She wants him to be a present.

Then it's silent again. She takes up a file and carries it to her filing cabinet, all the while listening if there is any more movement in his office. She finds out her filing cabinet is locked and she suddenly realizes where she has left the key earlier today. It's still on his desk.

As she stands in the doorway of his office, she stares down at her slender feet on the deep-pile dark blue carpet. _'Walking on water'_ is what she likes to call it. Sometimes it's thin ice they are walking on, sometimes he bends the law, and walks on the edges of what is legally and ethically possible and granted, and they do perform miracles in this office.

He's brilliant, he should be aware of that, he should know that by now. The years of his age have allowed him to practise extensively, to find out more and better ways to serve innocence and justice.

But he's so focussed on his flaws now, his weight being one of them, his inablity to control himself. Once, she has playfully said he has eaten her twice during their eight years apart, to have her with him in that way.

She just wishes she hadn't said that, because he always considers that as the truth, but he's just not the only one to decide what the truth is. Neither is she. And sometimes it just isn't that important, is it? Sometimes, things just should not be taken so very serious.

She walks into his office now, to search his desk for the key of her filing cabinet, and finds it. To be able to open the cabinet and file some more dossiers, some more memories.

Then she turns to the couch to watch him. He's asleep. One hand tucked lazily underneath his head on a pillow, the other one resting on his chest, close to his heart. Next to him, on the floor, are the relics of his anger and frustration, the pieces of the news paper he has been swearing at.

Silently, she moves closer to the couch and sits down next to him. Her thigh touches his. Out of habit, she lays her hand on his chest, next to his hand, on his heart, to feel it's beating its normal, reassuring rhythm. He breaths deeply and evenly. She breaths with him, looks at him. God, she loves him. She swallows, flutters her lashes, shakes her head. She doesn't want to cry, wills the tears away.

He should be able to leave the past where it is. He should be able to accept that lessons learned can only be taken into the present and into the future.

His tie is loosened, and lays around his neck in a simple nod, in the way he does that when he doesn't need to be uptight. She slips two fingers inside the sleeve of his shirt, to stroke the soft hairs she finds there. She needs the man, the owner of these male features.

" Perry … " It's a whisper. She thinks she says she loves him, but she says his name. And at times like these, that's the same. She's still angry with him, that's why she whispers. He's not supposed to hear her. At any other time, she'd cuddle up to him on the couch to sleep in his warm and strong arms. But not now, not yet. It's too confusing.

She kneels down to pick up the pieces of the news paper he has left on the carpet before, she'll dispose of them.

It's close to midnight now.

She leaves his office silently, not noticing his grin.

_- TBC -_

_(It's almost midnight, almost the eightteenth of April here in Holland now. Happy birthday, BH … )_


	3. Chapter 3

**Three**

**PM : Past Midnight **

She's done filing.

Her desk is empty.

She switches off some lights, just leaves on the one on her desk. She leans back in her chair, molds herself against the soft leather backrest, and closes her eyes. Her toes find her heels underneath her desk, she needs them on, because her feet are getting cold. It's past midnight now. It's her birthday. Time to do some thinking about the year that is to come. The seventiest year.

She allows herself to doze off a little.

It's silent for a long time.

His hefty presence reaches her. He always radiates quite a voltage after days like these, when he's done dwelling. His usual self is lighter and more present than he can imagine. He can be a present himself.

Her eyes pop open. She recognizes it, that unadulterated tension when he's filling the space around her, when she's the center of his meticulous attention, filling her pores, when he's close enough to read the words on the documents in front of her, but not close enough to count her lashes. Yet close enough for her to feel the goosebumps trailing her body mercilessly. He might be the man again she needs.

He stands behind her now, she leans forward and crosses her arms in front of her on her desk. She tilts her head, waits. He doesn't have to speak to order her to rise. She knows she just has to stand up slowly, but waits until she herself decides to do so.

That's how they work. He decides what to do. She decides when to do it.

And as she rises, the high heels that are embellishing her kissable feet, prolong her long slim legs. He waits until she pivots towards him gracefully, before he bends only his neck slightly, just slightly, to kiss her, but she turns her face away from him. His hand caresses her shoulder, just his one hand. The other hand is still tucked away in his pocket, because if he takes it out, he will crush her against him, he will seize her and devour her, before she's even aware.

And he can't do that now. Not yet. He's just starting his case.

Then he speaks. " I'm sorry, Della. " _About it all. About my mistakes and the way I have allowed yours to take place. About my dark moods and how they affect you. About my yelling and swearing. About taking it out on you. _

She breathes slowly and deeply. Looks up to him for the first time, yesterday and today. " You're sorry ? "

" Yes, I'm sorry … " His voice is soft, his gaze already starts to sink down into her eyes. She has to be careful.

" Empty words … " She shakes her head, watches him sternly. He can count her lashes now. And so he does. It takes him a few moments to find his voice again, and then he starts to plead.

" Della … " She's already seen his mood is lighter than before. His eyes are bright, wide open, more blue than they have a right to be. Luckily, he has never underestimated the notion of resting. He knows how to do it, if he needs it. He knows how to heal himself, and she's thankful for that. But he has been a pain to her, and he needs to heal that too, and he needs to suffer some more, before she will enclose him again. She crosses her arms in front of her heart.

_' Move to strike, Your Honour. '_

_' Not granted, Mr. Mason.'_

" Empty words … " But she closes the mirrors of her soul momentarily to not be caught and she moans shortly, his starting atonement so very conveniently comporting with her own need for his closeness. She needs his fingers, because they've been doing all the writing and pointing, all the thumbing through the pages of law books, files. She needs his mouth because its lips have formed the words that lead to the acquittal of innocent men and women, of her innocent self, they did the passionate fuming of allogations at the guilty ones, they have been bashing his deep male voice through court rooms. She craves for his torso, because it has been the sound chamber for all his tones, supported all the timbre, and she knows his heaviness will be feeling so very reassuring to her.

The right hand, that's the hand that is going to love her, caress her, its fingers will sink into her, and his left hand is going to hold her to him. His ears are going to hear her, when, not_ if,_ but_ when_ her mouth tells his mouth not to stop. And his eyes, his sweltering eyes, they are going to watch her while he does to her what she wants him to do to her.

But not yet.

_' Move to strike, Your Honour. '_

" Della … " His voice is as deep as his craving for the climax in court is. But he knows it's far away still. It might be too far away. But he's a winner.

_' No, Mr. Mason. The court hasn't been convinced yet. ' _

She pulls at his right arm to take his hand out of his pocket, then holds it to bring it to her face.

" I'm sorry, baby … " He brushes her face with this right hand, while she holds it. Then she kisses his thumb, before it brushes her cheek, and his fingers entangle with her hair, as he leans down, leasurely slowly bends towards her soft and sweet mouth, all the while hoping she's going to surrender to his request.

She tears herself loose from his eyes and his grip, and turns to her desk again. " We have to go home, Perry. "

_' State your case, Mr. Mason.'_

" Home, yes, but no, not yet. "

" Perry, it's been a very long day for me … I really want to go home. "

He reaches for her. She turns back to him.

Chin up, her voice stern, she speaks up, but not steady. " And you haven't eaten yet. "

" I'm not hungry. " He says, truthfully.

" It's past midnight. "

" I know. " He swallows, and turns his eyes up to the ceiling for a moment, then directs them back to hers. " Do you know what day it is today? "

Of course she knows what day it is today. Her stare doesn't soften.

His neither.

Succesfully communicating without words is what they do all the time. It can be an advantage of a longlife everlasting relationship. It's not now. Her eyes fume at him, tell him exactly what he's done to her, how angry she is.

He swallows, looks the other way momentarily and then looks back into her eyes. His stare softens. This is worse than dealing with an incooperative judge. Hell, this is worse than dealing with an incooperative client. Tactics and carefully chosen words might not be sufficient here. The truth is needed.

_' Mr. Mason.' _

_' Your Honour, I'd like the record to show very clearly that I never, but never meant to hurt Miss Della Street, and please let the record show that I want her to know it is my own foolishness I am yelling at if I yell at her, it's my own insecurity and fear I'm worried about, and I know I take it out on her, and I know it's wrong. It's true I consider regret a waste of time, but there are exceptions to my rules. ' _

_' Your rules … ' _

_' My rules.' _

_' Is that the truth, Mr. Mason?'_

_' That's the truth, Your Honour.' _

_' What is it you want, Mr. Mason? '_

_' I want my previous actions to be removed from the record. '_

_' And ? ' _

_' I want to repent. I want my atonement to be very deep and very evident to her and her only. ' _

_' You haven't convinced the court yet. And Miss Street is not a fool, Mr. Mason. Don't treat her as one.' _

_' I know that, Your Honour …'_

_' You've been treating her badly, Mr. Mason. ' _

_' I know that, Your Honour. I'm sorrry. ' _

He stands before her still, his gaze directed to the floor. " I have been unreasonable to you, and I know it … It was bad … "

" Bad, bad, bad … " She says it softly, slowly. Her eyes are gleaming in the dim light. It's late, she's tired. She doesn't want to cry.

" I've been a pain to you … "

" Yes, you have … " Her voice is even lower than his now. He brings his hand to her cheek, and holds it, brushing away the single tear with his thumb. All the while looking into her eyes deeply. She lets him. She starts to drown.

But her arms stay crossed in front of her, and then she turns her face away again.

" Della … "

He drops his hand, urges it back into his pocket.

_' Mr. Mason? '_

'_ Let the record show, please, Your Honour, that I love Della Street, I have always loved her, and I always will love her … '_

_' And so it shall be recorded. And so you shall love her, Mr. Mason. Forever … ' _

_' Forever. Thank you, Your Honour … ' _

" … I love you, baby …" It's a choking whisper. It isn't meant to be a choke, it isn't meant to be a whisper, but it comes out that way.

" Yes, you do. " It's a whisper too.

" Della … " He pleads. The evidence of his guilt is so painfully clear. He has personally provided her with exhibits A to Z easily, and they all have been marked and she wasn't the one to do that. He knows he's marked them himself, being very aware now that he has to give her pleasure for every single exhibit, that he has to kiss her for each time he yelled. Stroke her for every time he swore.

_' Move to strike, Your Honour. '_

_' No, Mr. Mason.'_

It's warm, it's dark. Both his hands are thrust deep in his pockets again, because he's afraid they will go their own way if he takes them out. He just stands in front of her, kisses her forehead, her cheeks, nuzzling his face to hers. She lets him. She closes her eyes again.

" I'm sorry, Della … "

Her arms are still crossed in front of her heart, she moans almost inaudibly, brushes her forehead back and forth against his beard.

" Della, baby, I love you … " It's the truth. She knows it is.

Her face leans against his chest, as the tears do surface.

_' Mr. Mason?' _

_' Your Honour …'_

Bloody, bloody idiot, Mason. God damn fool.

" Baby … please … "

She nods to answer a question he didn't ask, and sniffs. His face sinks into her hair.

_' Move to strike, Your Honour.'_

He bends his neck and his mouth trails soft kisses on her cheek, he moans a little. He decides to say it out loud. " Move to strike. "

She swallows a chuckle, fumbles with his tie. He's soft, he's real, he smells so good, he's so warm, he sounds good, he's so present. He's large. And he's just a man, right ? And he's her man, right ?

He whispers it, to her ear this time. " Move to strike, Your Honour … "

Then she looks up into his face, and sighs, giving him an exasperated look. " Oh, Perry … you're such a … " She's too much of a lady to say the words out loud, but he knows what she means, and he knows which words she's not saying, and he agrees with her completely.

He watches her as she closes her eyes and purses her lips.

Is it a smile?

It is.

And then somehow it's happening that she takes off his already loosened tie and her hands land on his heart, stroking his warm rugged chest through his shirt.

_' Motion granted. ' _

_' Thank you, Your Honour.'_

He leans down to reach for her mouth and brushes her lips, sweetly. It's appropriately tentative. He looks into her eyes.

He kisses her lips again, opens his, and hers by doing so. His hands are still in his pockets. She tilts her head to give him more room, and then he sucks her tongue into his mouth, very gently, very sultry. He takes his time. After long moments, she moans, falls against him and his hands appear from out of nowhere to capture her.

Her fingers snake around his neck, pull him to her, her body reacts on all his touches, pushes herself towards him. This is what she needs exactly. She breathes anticipating sighs into his mouth.

He anticipates too. Prepares. Paying meticulous attention to the details. Because that's what needs to be done to win a case. When, _not if, but when _he's going to be inside her, in whatever way, he'll have to be carefully listening to what she feels, hearing what she sees, reading her reactions and noticing even the slightest altering in her breathing, her differing moans, the changing of the soft lines on her face. Her responses to him will be genuine, and he has to be receptive to them.

He has to concentrate on her, she's the center of his attention now. There is nothing else but her and winning this case he has been preparing, seemingly all day.

He works on it in detail, kissing his way down the column of her elegant, soft scented throat, while he holds her shivering lithe body to his massive torso. His fingers roam over her back in slow seizing grasps. " I love you … I'm sorry … " One hand travels upwards to her hair, urges her head to fall back so he can look into her eyes deeply and see her smile and her need.

" You're sorry … " It's the best smile he's ever elicited from her.

" I am … and I love you … " He breathes the words against her lips, before invading her mouth with his tongue to start the complete take over.

_' Mr. Mason … '_

He's busy. Now two hands hold her face, another two hands reach out for his. One of them brings one of his to her waist, caressing her breast along the way down her alluring curvy shape. He pulls up her blouse from her skirt, and strokes the smooth fabric of her slip, before he pulls that up too. He makes sure she feels what he feels, now that it's really necessary to use the same language.

She stops him. " You're sorry … And you are having me for my birthday ? "

He smiles. " That's not how it's supposed to be, is it? "

" No. "

" How is it supposed to be, baby ? Tell me … "

" Sweet and slowly … " She's too much of a lady to say the words to describe what she wants, but he knows what she means, and he knows which words she's not saying, and he concurs with her completely.

The warmth of her skin is more inviting and softer than he deserves. Time passes. He can do this for a long long time, using delaying tactics, ask for suspensions, deliberately take too long for a questioning, a testimony. He knows how to cause her complete unconsciousness, deliberately uses years of knowledge to have her enjoy as much of him as possible and in detail. She can have him and she can have him for free.

" Please … " And now she's pleading as well.

He takes in her moans and enjoys them as if they're his own. They are his own, as her fingers reach down and make him vulnerable in the sweetest way, slowly. Her eyes are dark and gleaming seductively, as her fingers kneed, tease, massage.

He closes his eyes, and breathes heavily, releasing the best sounds of today.

She smiles. This is who she wants. She wants the man, completely, and she wants him large.

He inhales deeply, opens his eyes to take in his surroundings, and quickly notices where they are exactly. Somehow, they have moved into his office. And the couch is only five yards from here. And they might not be able to make it. But ravishing her here, on the deep pile carpet is not an option. Not anymore.

_' Your Honour. ' _

He has to move now, they have to make a motion towards the couch, they have to lay down there. He has to take off the rest of the fabric that is between him and her bare, warm skin. Her clothes and his have to disappear completely, and they do. He lays her down, tries to do it elegantly, stumbles a little, swears. It makes her laugh. " Mind yourself, darling. " But he's been doing that all day.

_' Move to strike.' _

_' Motion granted.'_

He's too old to kneel down for her, and does the second best thing to be able to do what she wants him to do, and then feasts upon the smooth bare legs that were covered by her rustling skirt and silkened stockings earlier, but not anymore. His mouth travels upwards, being thorough, caresses her shins, calves, kisses her knees, then reaches the insides of her thighs. She moans. She pants.

" Yes … oh, yes … " She holds his face, shudders, shivers. She moves with him. It maddens him, but he continues. " Please, don't stop … "

_' Mr. Mason? '_

He doesn't stop.

Her head falls back onto the same couch he's been dwelling on all day.

_' Mr. Mason? ' _

They are going to end this his way, because in the end, he is the boss. No matter what. Feverishly, because he's close to where he's just brought her, he hovers over her. His heaviness does feel reassuring, she grabs at him, needs him like this.

_' Move for dismissal, Your Honour. '_

_' Does the defense have any objections? ' _

_' The defense concurs, Your Honour.'_

He has compared it to orgasm once, the dismissal. And he does hold his breath in the same way, in the seconds before the gavel hits the wood. Then, when he exhales, his gaze is directed to her immediately, to see her exhale with him and give him a short invincible smile. Victory combined with her presence is a strong elixer to be able to be Perry Mason.

But there's nothing like this, nothing like her real warm nakedness against his, underneath his, around his, moving together, ageless, acheless, full of conviction, love, deeper love, the room swirls, their breaths and sounds are mingling,

there has never been and never will be more arousal, no matter what age or state they are in, he will never love more, have more, do more, be more

moaning deeply, gasping, grabbing, urging, faster, deeper, more, more, more,

and then finally, finally …

" … I love you … "

and he holds his breath …

_' Case dismissed. This court is adjourned. '_

###

He pants with her, stroking her face, enjoys her as she's reclaiming consciousness, and opens her eyes to him slowly, gives him that soft invincible smile. Her chest is still heaving, his hand lingers over her body, find the way and maybe do it again if needed and possible.

His now speechless mouth kisses and licks the softness where her sweet sweat laves her creamy skin. Her hands are draped on his shoulders lazily, following his movements as he continues to worship all of her.

Again?

_' Your Honour … ' _

_- TBC - _


	4. Epilogue

**Epilogue **

**PM: Yeah, Past, Midnight**

He opened his eyes slowly, as he exhaled. " That was quite extraordinary, Miss Street … " His voice was labored, impossibly low and that alone could have caused her to smile this lovingly at him. But now also the way his shirt fell open and exposed his bare chest, the way he leaned back lazily to the couch, almost thirty years, well, twenty years younger, utterly spent, relaxing extensively, made her swoon. This was him at his best. She sat sidewards on the backrest of the couch, massaging her hands over his rugged chest towards his shoulders.

" It was quite extraordinary … " Her voice was as labored. " But it had been a while … "

He admired all that was hers. His eyes fondled over the years next to him, rested comfortably on her breasts and travelled up to her face with a sly smile in them.

" So, is it past midnight ? " He asked. As if he didn't know.

" Yes, it's past midnight. "

His hands held her upperarms, then slowly, slowly pulled her soft, warm body on top of him from the back of the couch, a small chuckle accompanying her when she landed in his arms. He wrapped his arms and legs around her as far as he could. Both their bodies were warm, slightly damp, this embrace causing a familiair intimacy that could not be explained, could only be felt.

" It's good to have you back, even if you were gone for just one day. " She floated in his arms. " I need you so close to me right now. "

Then he whispered to her ear. " Happy birthday, darling. "

When she turned her face to him, he was happily enabled to drown in her fascinating glooming glittering hazel eyes, and he took in her full lips, a little swollen from the earlier display of his sweltering hunger. He kissed her lazily and long.

" You thought I had forgotten about your birthday, right ? " He whispered to her lips.

" No. " She shook her head.

" Yes, you did. "

" Well, had you forgotten about it ? "

" No."

" Yes, you had. Being the way you were today. "

" I still think you should hit me if I'm like I was today, and before … "

" I did that once, and it didn't turn out very well, did it ? "

" Yes, but that's another story … "

" Mmm-mmm … " They kissed deeply, causing her to moan extensively. " So, did you forget my birthday? "

" No, no. I only forgot to bring your present. It's still at home. I'll give it to you to have it herald you into your new year. Once we're able enough to get out of here … "

" Able enough? "

" I'm too old to have your ways with me on the couch … "

She laughed at his deliberate mixing up of words. And sighed, contentedly. Her ways with him on the couch were extraordinary in deed, no matter what age or state they were in. But still.

" Next year, I'll be seventy, Perry. " She stroked the hairs on his arms, nuzzled her face to them.

" Mmm-mmm … "

" I want something special for that birthday … "

" I already have something in mind … "

" You do ? "

" Something very special … "

" You're not going to tell me, are you? "

" No. "

" I do have a request ... "

" Anything, darling … "

" Do you want to give me my present in the court room next year? "

" Yes? Why? "

" I can't really tell … It seems so much more appropriate. "

He thought about it for a while in silence, holding her very close to him, realizing he was dwelling on the couch again but this time for good reasons.

Yes, it was appropriate to give her his present in the court room next year. Especially the present he had in mind.

She was the defendant, the witness, the prosecutor, but most of all she was the judge of his equilibrium. She was the keeper of the balancing system he worked for and with, and so she did hold his hand and his heart at the end of the day, had done so for years.

And he kept the key to her filing cabinet.

It was a very fulfilling way of living their lives simultaneously.

It humbled him, it made him small. His body was old now, his hair grey, and both his skin and his ways were weathered and rusty.

But aging as well as atonement were not bad when it was done in the presence of Della Street.

She would lovingly provide him with another day tomorrow, and he would fill it with laughter … and a new case.

#####


End file.
